


The Adventure of the Ghost of Torchwood Manor

by OddF3ll0w



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Butlers, Cardiff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ghosts, London, Mystery, Other, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddF3ll0w/pseuds/OddF3ll0w
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A family claims to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson that their house, the Torchwood Manor, is haunted. Holmes and Watson take the case and travel to Torchwood Manor, which is located outside Cardiff in Wales. There they meet the whole family and investigate the rooms claimed to be haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Ghost of Torchwood Manor

**Author's Note:**

> This fan-fiction was written as an assignment for an English course at Malmö Högskola (Malmö University) by Pontus Berkenäs, Pelle Flemark, Måns Rasmusson and Jesper Ronge Drangel

During my acquaintance with Holmes, spanning several years now, we have endured many extraordinary investigations together. In one particular that I recall, we had travelled to Southern Wales in order to unravel the mystery of the haunted manor. It started during a terribly cold winter in early January in the year ‘85. It was almost impossible to move past your frontstep without wading knee-deep in snow. Rarely did the snow fall as hard and ruthlessly on the people of England. The light from the street-lamps was barely visible through the window and few dared roam the streets outside. Although terribly cold outside, we had managed to keep our flat to a liveable standard, in large part thanks to the roaring fireplace - Holmes had predicted the weather and made sure we stocked up on firewood. It was about nine o'clock in the morning when Holmes and I had just began eating our breakfast. I observed Holmes as he was devouring yet another book in order to expand his knowledge. We heard a tap on the front door, the sound barely resembling a knock. Nevertheless, Holmes sprung from his seat, dropping his shortbread on the table, and with a satisfied expression on his face he exclaimed with excitement: "At last Watson, our guest has arrived" as he was walking cheerily towards the door.

Holmes opened the door and there stood Mrs. Hudson, accompanied by a delicate and beautiful young woman, outfitted with an elegant woollen dress which was covered with a traveling coat which looked like it had barely been worn before. I could clearly see that she had been traveling for a long period of time: she was shivering, her eyes looked tired and her clothes were all wet from the heavy snow which lay upon the ground.

"Welcome my lady. I hope the travel from Wales has not been too harsh, considering these awful conditions." said Holmes as he invited her into the sitting-room.

"How could you possibly know that I have come all the way from Wales, if I may ask?" said the young woman, looking at Holmes in astonishment.

"Ha! It is most obvious, my lady, if I may say so." said Holmes, looking smirk. "Considering when the train arrives at the station, and the approximate travel time with carriage to this address, the time could only concur with that of the night-train arriving from Wales. Not only that, but the gown that my lady is wearing has fallen out of fashion in other parts of Britain in the last few decades."

Holmes offered her a seat in the old armchair, moving a stack of newspapers to make room, letting her sit close to the welcoming fireplace. She took a seat and my friend and I sat down on the sofa across from her. I could see Holmes giving her a quick look-over, most likely in order to find out anything he could about this woman and her ways.

"So, what brings a young lady to a place like this?" said Holmes, continuing to look her over.

"My name is Mary Morgan and I have come to inquire your aid in a matter of our family residence, the Torchwood Manor. My family believes the building to be haunted. There have been several mysterious occurrence, to which we can find no natural explanation" said the young lady, looking seemingly terrified over what she had just told the two of us.

Holmes was rather amused by the sound of a haunted manor as he told the lady "Would you like for us to unravel the mystery of the garden gnomes?”

Miss Mary Morgan did not look pleased by my friend’s quip.

“How exactly did your family come to own this manor, and how long have you lived there?"

“My father, John Morgan, made our family's name through the slate industry. His company is currently employing several thousand men in the quarries in northern Wales. Our family acquired the manor twenty-five years ago, after the previous owners were forced to sell it."

You could tell that Holmes was deep in his mind, frowning his eyebrows and fidgeting with the heavy newspaper from The Daily Telegraph and other small items collecting dust on the table. Meanwhile, Mary was telling us the story of the haunted manor.

"There are mysterious creaking sounds, which makes the fear run down your spine. Fires have been mysteriously put out and furniture have moved around in the night. There is always a draft from the chilling wind, cold as death.”

"What about the family that previously lived in the manor?" asked Holmes.

"The previous occupants had owned the manor for several generations, I am not certain how far back they went. Although I have never met them in person, I’ve been told that they were devastated over the fact that they had to leave their family home. I believe my father told me that they still live in the nearby village."

To this Holmes showed great interest and said "It does seem like a journey to Wales will be in order for us, my dear fellow. I suggest you travel home as soon as possible, my lady, and Dr. Watson and I will follow in the morning." The next morning we hired a cab and travelled to Paddington Station where we took the morning train heading for Cardiff.

You could tell that winter was upon us. The roads had disappeared and the cold harsh landscape was seen as nothing more than a snow covered rock. The snow was falling like leaves fall in autumn; however, it did not seem to stop.

“When will this godawful weather end?” said I, while looking out the window of our train-cabin. The train had been travelling for an hour or so and it would continue for many more before reaching Cardiff. From there we would have to find a carriage to take us to the Torchwood Manor.

“Achoo!” I turned my gaze upon Holmes. It would seem that not even the great Sherlock Holmes could avoid a common cold. When I think of it, I cannot recall him ever being sick.

“My dear Watson, would you confer a great favour upon me by handing over the tissues?” said Holmes in an unusually pathetic tone. Holmes glanced at his pocket watch and said, “We are going well Watson, at this rate we will be arriving at Torchwood Manor quarter to four.”

“Just in time for tea then” said I, while staring at the harsh winter landscape. The quarter-mile posts had all been covered by the snow. I was not too surprised by the certainty my friend had shown over his time prediction, and experience told me he was right. I did not dwell on the matter too much, however, since I had other thoughts on my mind. The haunting, as Miss Morgan had put it, had made me feel a certain unease. However, I had faith in my friend’s abilities and trusted him to keep us both safe. I squinted my eyes at Holmes while he was lighting his pipe. I did enjoy a good cigar every now and then but the habit of Sherlock Holmes's pipe puffing had left me with a distaste in my mouth, and I decided to wrap my scarf around my nose.

“Have you formed a theory yet, Sherlock?” said I.

Holmes, finally removing his mouth from the pipe, replied with a smirk on his face, “It is not of mere chance that we will be arriving at Torchwood Manor this afternoon. The last hours I had of yesterday were indeed vital for us, for the inquiries I made were of utmost importance to this case.” I laid back against the seat and listened to Holmes’ explain what his inquiries had given him, most of which were about the lineage of the Morgan family. The day would be long and cold and I did my best to rest before we reached Cardiff.

Upon our arrival at the train station we took a carriage to the Torchwood Manor. The coachman, stinking of barley wine, was telling horrible stories about how the first lady in the Morgan family, Mary’s grandmother, had been driven mad by the ghosts and finally hung herself from a large oak in the front yard of the manor, only a few years after the family moved in.

“This place is haunted I tell yah’, people from the village have heard the sound of cracklin’ twigs, a screech that would take the heart of men and turn your blood to ice and some say that the ol’ lady still hangs from the top of that very branch.” The man pointed with his crooked fingers at the large oak, standing on a hill side, right in front of the manor. I had not realised until then that we were in view of the manor. While I could not see much from this distance, I did notice a distinct lack of windows - the walls reminiscent of those of a castle.

The snow was coming down hard and it was difficult to see, suddenly the coachman had stopped. The carriage door flung open with terrible force and the snow-covered man outside said, “Are you the detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Consulting detective, yes” Holmes answered.

“And this must be Dr. John Watson?” he said, shifting his focus from my friend to me.

“Yes. I beg your pardon, but who are you?” said I.

“Doctor, my name is Jack Harkness, and I am the butler of the proud family Morgan. Would you do me the honour of escorting you two gentlemen to the manor, I do believe the weather is only going to get worse from here on”.

“Worse? How on earth can this weather possibly get worse!?” I shouted, while stepping out of the carriage. The weather was coming down hard and the cold was almost unbearable. The butler was right, it was starting to get worse - dark black clouds approached us with a terrible speed. As we followed the butler through a massive steel gate, I could not help to notice the even more massive oak. I heard the sound of branches crackling and a hollow sound, carried by the wind, I looked at Holmes but he had his eyes fixed at what was in front of us – Torchwood Manor. The craftwork was of late 1700’s. It was of the Georgian style with tall Corinthian pillars to its entrance porch. The estate had large towers stretching high into the air, and chimneys pouring smoke into the already dark sky. As we were walking towards the manor, we passed the garden. Suddenly I heard Holmes stop and chuckle.

“Seems our case is solved.” Holmes crouched down and with a few brushing strokes revealed two garden gnomes that had been covered by the snow - how he could possibly have seen them under the white sheath which covered the garden I do not know. I returned a smile, however I mainly felt a longing for the warmth of the fireplace. We hurried our steps and the butler reached for a large handle, opened the door, stepped aside, and led us in with the palm of his hand.

Mr. Harkness closed the door and the warmth was a most welcomed feeling. I cannot ever recall have been so cold in my entire life. The hall was almost empty; no particular furniture was present. In spite of the warmth of the fireplace blazing, it still felt almost cold but not in a temperature way, more of a feeling. Three figures entered the room.

“Mr. Holmes, welcome to Torchwood Manor. I trust your travel has been comfortable, despite the awful weather?” the man said while shaking Holmes’ hand.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan, I presume?” Holmes replied.

“Correct you are, sir” said the man. He was a large chap dressed in a fine woollen suit. His hair was combed to the side, trying to hide his bald spot, although failing its purpose. He also had a noticeable redhead and a grandiose walrus moustache.

“I trust you already met my daughter?” Mary Morgan stepped out of the shadows behind the large man.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am very pleased to see you both again.” She looked awfully tired and pale, it was almost as if the light from her skin had disappeared and turned to a shade of grey. Even her hair seemed to have lost its glister, not at all as beautiful as she appeared just yesterday morning.

“So this is the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his companion. I thought you both to be a bit taller.” we heard a voice say from the doorway behind the Morgans. Another man appeared, his gaze was fixed upon my companion and seemingly ignoring everyone and everything else.

“Mr. Harkness, would be so kind to introduce me to these two – gentlemen? Damned be you man, did you not hear me!?”

The butler, startled by the shouting, quickly corrected his mistake by presenting, “Gentlemen, may I introduce to you, the Lord of Caerphilly, James T. Farnsworth the Third.”

“Indeed, you are.” said Holmes blandly.

“So you have heard of me?” said the Lord.

My friend smiled at the man and replied, “Well of course! Everyone have heard of the great Farnsworth family.” Holmes reached out his hand, “How you squandered all of your heritage in your bad habit of gambling.”  
The man’s eyes opened wide and the vein on his forehead seemed ready to burst.

“Hold on just a minute, how did you…” said the man, with both anger and confusion in his voice.

“Simple calculations, my dear Lord, nothing more.” Holmes quipped.

“Now now, let us not get our fighting spirit on. There is a mystery that needs to be solved, that is why Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are here. These are my guests and we are honoured to have them here, just as you are, Lord Farnsworth”, said Mr. Morgan. “Please Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, follow me.” We followed Mr. Morgan through a narrow hall and entered the sitting room.

“Please gentlemen, take a seat.” My colleague and I sat down in the armchairs near the fireplace with Mr. Morgan opposite of us in a lavish high back wing chair. He offered us both something to drink and asked the butler to bring us some tea and biscuits.

“As you may know,” began Mr. Morgan, “there are old stories of this house being haunted. It was all nonsense in my eyes - I saw nothing out of the ordinary and heard little more than the creaking of the floor and the gushing of the wind. I must admit, however, that in these last few months things have happened which I cannot seem to attribute to anything short of the supernatural. I hope, Mr. Holmes, that you will have better luck than me. The women have not taken kindly to these events, and I am beginning to fear for their sanity.

“Ah, speaking of which! My dearest, how are you?” exclaimed Mr. Morgan, with a sudden change of tone in his voice. A red-dressed woman entered and walked slowly across the room towards the fireplace. She crouched down in front of it and held her hands close to the fire for warmth. Her hair was grey but it almost seemed white to me. She was a thin woman and I could not judge her age, for she had a wrinkled face which seemed too old for her body. She did not respond to her husband’s kind words, nor did she even seem to notice that there were two strangers sitting in armchairs next to her. To me she appeared more like a ghost than a woman. The door opened and the butler informed us that supper was ready. We left the room and were escorted to the dining room where they served faggots, mashed potatoes and gravy.

The table was quiet and little was said beyond a few questions by my companion.

Once the supper was finished and the table was being cleared, Holmes rose from his seat and said ”Now, Miss Morgan, if you would please show us where these supposed hauntings have occurred?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Is there anywhere in particular you would like to begin?” she answered.

“Wherever most of these events have occurred.”

Miss Morgan led the way upstairs and down a hallway, stopping at the second and last door on the right. Holmes stepped into the room and took a quick look around. The master bedroom was a fairly large room, with a single window, half-covered by the heavy snowfall, on the left hand side and a fireplace on the right. On the far side of the room was a king sized bed with a thick frame made of oak, with a nightstand on each side, and on either side of the door there were chests of drawers.

“Would you please tell us what has happened here, Mrs. Morgan?” said Holmes. I had not noticed that Mrs. Morgan had followed us up and was now standing in the doorway, though I was not surprised my friend had.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morgan and cleared her throat ”The first thing I noticed was the fire going out. About two months ago I noticed that it was abnormally cold one morning, and looking at the fireplace I saw that it had not only burnt out – which is common during the night – but that it had also gone completely cold, suggesting that it had been out for some time. I didn’t think much of it at first, but it kept happening – more and more frequently as time went on. Now it happens almost every night, and with the current weather I am growing more and more frightened of the cold mornings.”

“I see.” said Holmes. “Have you tried combatting the problem in any way? Adding more wood in the evening, for example?”

“We have,” answered Mrs. Morgan, “but it does not seem to help. On the nights that the fire goes out it does not seem to matter what we do.”

“Do you ever put out the fire yourself?”

“No, sir. When we do not need the fire we simply let it burn out and then Mr. Harkness sweeps it clean.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan, that should be enough about the fireplace. While peculiar, surely this on its own can not have caused you to feel as you do now. What else has happened in here?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, the nightstands,” said Mrs. Morgan, with clear fright in her voice, “they moved, all on their own. It was just a few nights ago, shortly before we sent our daughter to bring you here. As you can see, my husband and I each have our own nightstands. When we awoke one morning, they had swapped places. My nightstand was on my husband’s side, and his was on mine.”

“Is there any chance that someone came in during the night and moved them?” asked Holmes.

“I cannot see how, Mr. Holmes. Our door and window were both locked from the inside, and we saw no sign of them being disturbed when we woke up.” answered Mrs. Morgan.

Holmes walked around the room, taking a close look at the door and window, the nightstands, and finally the fireplace, which he could not approach too closely since it was burning quite heavily at the time. As usual I could see no sign of whether he had deduced something or not, though experience told me he had.

“Very well!” exclaimed Holmes. “Next room, please.”

Miss Morgan walked out of the bedroom and to the door across from it.

“This is my father’s study.” said Miss Morgan, “Yesterday evening, at about 9 o’clock, we had all gone to our separate rooms, when suddenly we heard a loud bang from inside this room. I ran out into the hallway and saw my parents exiting their room. My father opened the door and that’s when we saw this.”

In the centre of the rather cold room there was a large bookshelf, lying front-down on the floor. On the back of it there was written, in large red letters, the word -OUT-.

“There have been old stories about this house being haunted and driving my grandmother to suicide. I never believed them, until now.” Mary Morgan was shaking with fear.

“There is no reason to start believing in ghosts just yet.” said Holmes, seemingly in an attempt to be comforting. “I assume both the door and window were locked in this room as well?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, and we were here almost immediately after we heard the bang. I do not think there would be time for anyone to get out of here, even if they had a key to the door, and the window was sealed from the inside. We have left the room locked and empty during the night, awaiting your arrival today. We did not even allow Mr. Harkness to enter and light a fire” answered Miss Morgan.

Sherlock Holmes looked around the room, inspecting closely the red letters on the back of the bookshelf and the wall it had stood against. He then procured a small knife from within his jacket and attempted to work it through a small slit between the window and its frame – however, he seemed unable to get it through. After a few minutes of silent investigation Holmes seemed finished and asked to see one last room, Miss Morgan’s bedroom.

Mary Morgan’s bedroom was to the right of her parent’s, back towards the dining area. Her room was quite simply decorated, with a fireplace to the left, wall-to-wall with her parent’s fireplace, and a desk, somewhat smaller than her father’s, along the far-side wall. On the right stood her bed, and beside the door a chest of drawers. There were a few paintings on the walls, but no windows.

“I was sitting on my desk chair, facing the fire, a few nights ago. Suddenly I felt a cold wind down my back, and fear clasped my heart. I can see no natural way in which such a wind could arise in my chambers.” said Miss Morgan, with clear fear in her voice.

At this point, both of the women seemed very scared and upset, and my companion asked me to walk both of them back to the sitting room and keep them company while he continued his investigation.

When the day was coming to a close and Holmes had vigorously investigated every supposedly haunted room in Torchwood Manor, my companion was dead tired and I was thinking where we were going to spend the night. Holmes went over to Mr. Morgan and inquired if he could stay in the manor, both for sleep and to catch the ghost in the act.

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. I will ask Mr. Harkness to prepare a room for you and Dr. Watson.” said Mr. Morgan.

“No”, answered Holmes, “only I will be staying. Dr. Watson is taking the night train back to London.”

“Oh, is he no longer needed?”

“Well of course he is, but he is needed more in London right now. I have some errands in Cardiff, so I will accompany Dr. Watson to the station.”

Confused over Holmes’ plan I waited to express my thoughts until we were in the carriage and well out of the earshot of any from the Torchwood Manor.

“I assume that you have a lead,” said I, “what is the plan?”

“More a hunch than a lead. I want you to go to the London Library at St. James's Square and find out who the original owners of the Torchwood Manor are, and then see if there are any photographs or paintings of them in the archive. I will do the same here in Cardiff. Send any information you might find to me by messenger.”

“By messenger? Should I not return?”

“No, I need you in London for more investigations if this hunch would be proven wrong.” Holmes stated.

The train felt like it took a ghastly long time, even if I slept through most of it. When I finally arrived in London I was famished, so I took a detour to a tearoom for breakfast, which was worth the trudging through the deep snow, before moving on to St. James's Square and the London Library. Once there it didn’t take me long before finding the information I was looking for. It was the family Kilmister, one of the old families that became highly appointed and respected during the 17th century, but largely missing in later history. What was more difficult was to find a recent photograph or painting of what the family looked like. After several hours, I finally found a thirty year old newspaper clipping of the marriage between David Kilmister and Sarah Anne Taylor, with a photo of the newlywed couple. Mr. David Kilmister looked oddly familiar, I wondered if he and I had crossed paths before, perhaps during my tour in Afghanistan. I suddenly realised I had been standing there, looking at the photograph and reminiscing about my past, for about ten minutes. I refocused on my task and after yet another journey through the snow, I arranged for the information I had gathered to be sent by messenger to Holmes. Afterwards I returned home to 221B Baker Street to warm up and await news from my companion.

Only two days later, when I sat down for breakfast in our apartment, Sherlock strode in triumphantly. He sat down across from me and poured himself a cup of tea, took a sip and said “Good morning, my dear doctor!”  
“Did you solve the mystery of the ghost?” I asked, with curiosity clear in my voice.

“When I was presented with all the facts,” said Holmes, “the solution was rather elementary.”

“Please, do tell.”

“First of all, as you know, I don’t believe in ghosts. As such I knew there had to be a logical explanation for everything and a human must be behind it all. My first clue came from the nightstands which had been moved. I tried to lift one myself and while it was heavy, I could move it quietly enough that no one would have been woken by the sounds. However, they were too heavy for any of the women in the household to carry with ease, and as such I knew that the supposed ghost must be a man.

“My second clue”, Holmes continued, “was the writing on the bookshelf. I saw clear brushstrokes in the red paint disguised as blood. After looking closer, I deduced that the letters were written in an unconventional way. Whomever had written it started at the bottom of the O, on the right top of the U, and from the bottom of the T. Try it yourself, Watson, and you will see that the only reasonable explanation as to why a person would write that way, is if they wrote it upside down.”

“But why would they write it upside down?” I inquired.

“I wondered that myself.” said Holmes, “So, the day after you left I asked to investigate the study once more. Placing myself behind the bookshelf to more closely examine the letters, I noticed some paint drops on the floor between the bookshelf and the wall. Why would a person move there to paint the letters after pulling down the bookshelf. It then became clear to me that the so called ghost would have pushed the bookshelf out from behind. After realizing that I investigated the wall where the bookshelf had been standing and, just as I expected, I found a hidden latch that opened up the wall into a secret passage.”

“A secret passage!” said I, baffled.

“Yes,” Holmes answered, “I investigated the secret passages and found that it had access to all rooms where hauntings had taken place. But, I chose not to tell the Morgans right away, since I didn’t want to scare away the perpetrator. I wanted to catch him in the act. I also found that the secret passage led out onto the premises, meaning a person could enter the house unnoticed. But, who would know about these secret passages, other than the original owners? The hunch I had before could be proven useful, depending on if your mission was a success or not.”

“Which it was.” I stated.

“Yes, thank you!” answered Holmes, “When your messenger arrived at lunch yesterday and I saw the photograph, the case was solved. Both who the ghost was and their motive.”

“Then who was it?”

“I saw a lot of family resemblance between David Kilmister and his son.”

“His son? Had he nestled into the Morgan family?”

“Yes,” continued Holmes, “but to catch him in the act I hatched a cunning plan. First I wanted to get Mr. Morgan with me into the sitting room. I said to him loudly that I had found the ghost, but to catch it I needed some supplies. He then sent the butler out on an errand to get said supplies. Still in the sitting room with Mr. Morgan, I told him about some of the clues I found to keep us in a conversation. Knowing that the ghost wanted to listen in and knowing the closest hidden door I waited an appropriate amount of time before letting my trap snap. I exclaimed to Mr. Morgan that the ghost was in the room as we spoke. Following this I quickly opened the hidden door and out fell the butler Jack Harkness, whose real name was David Kilmister Junior, our supposed ghost.”

“The butler was the ghost?” said I, baffled, “But why would the son of the original owner be working as a butler for the Morgan family and also pretending to be a ghost that tries to force them out?”

“The motive was the manor.” said Holmes, “The Kilmisters never wanted to sell the house, but were forced to in order to survive. But now they have started to get their fortune back and they wanted to buy back Torchwood Manor. By making the place seem haunted and inhospitable they were making sure that the Morgans would want to sell, and probably lower than market value.”

“But how does this explain the hauntings from thirty years ago? Wouldn’t David Kilmister Junior be too young to be able to orchestrate that?” I asked Holmes.

“This information I was not sure of, but after questioning David Kilmister Junior I found out that the old ghost was his father, David Kilmister Senior, who, after losing the house, despised the Morgans and wanted to punish them. After his hauntings drove Mrs. Wilhelmina Morgan to suicide, he knew that he had went too far and stopped.”

And this was the story of how my companion, Sherlock Holmes, caught himself a living ghost.


End file.
